Black Treacle
by ObservationofTrifles
Summary: What if Sherlock met John just in the street, as a random passerby? My take on how that could have happened, with Holmes listening to and returning from a concert, Watson not much more than a passerby indeed. Sherlock's POV, second person. Title borrowed from an Arctic Monkeys song.


**I had an idea while listening to a live concert stream that what if Sherlock went to a concert? And met John just as a passerby on the street? No one knows how life may turn. To be honest, the descriptions are a product of an exhausted me and a very nice online concert. **

**I hope you enjoy reading this. Sherlock is not mine, I'm just borrowing them. Title taken from Arctic Monkeys song, "Black Treacle".**

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The bass made your stomach drop just a little bit over and over again as the electric guitar introduced its melody and the dark molasses voice of the short, yet oozingly charismatic man took over the stage, dancing its own dance with the bass.

The first song was accompanied by a myriad of female screams and swoons that annoyed you to no end because the noise completely blotted out the music. The singer's voice was deeper than it sounded on the CD's, but that was okay with you because you swayed with the melody and couldn't care less, appreciating the vocalist's intense accent.

Soon, his voice woke up and the brightness inherent to the treacle shone through. Really, this song is missing a nice violin or viola backdrop, just a rondeau of the main chords would have really added another level, you think. His voice hit a new low as the bass dropped and you mentally thanked the predominantly female collective of the crowd for staying quiet, observing the guitars from as far away as you admittedly were.

Your favourite song comes on and the singer is just a bit off but it sounds absolutely perfect with the echo of the hall and the words enveloping you in a beautifully euphoric feeling as you sway to the drums and deliciously dark bass. The guitar solo comes with an improvisation upon the one that's been so overplayed on the radio and the song melds into another and the screams almost deafen you. You catch the vocalist's faint smile.

The lights dim and the familiar rhythm sets into your movements as you go into a small trance, singing along to the words of the song and thinking about anything and everything; the Jim Morrison-esque next piece leaves you desiring only a lesser crowd and louder speakers.

Live, the singer's voice is so much more dynamic that on CD or vinyl, and as the set bleeds into the band's older songs, you turned to singing along in your own deep and pleasant voice as you thought about dozens and dozens of observations and little things you need to learn and to forget. Drums, setting a steady beat, no electric guitar, light cymbal strokes and quick bass set the mood for a quicker sorting of information, louder singing on your part.

It is over much too soon, ending with a nostalgic taste of an album past. The singer's voice continued dripping down with sweet intensity deep down in the depths of your mind as you walked home in the dark street with London breathing out its own sounds all around you. You think about the stars and endless constellations and their beauty (though the science doesn't interest you, too irrelevant) with the colours of the sky bleeding down into an eventual black as you trip over something and only a stiff shoulder stops you from falling.

"Sorry, mate, you okay?" asks the man in front of you. Short, blond military cut, with a walking stick. You quickly look at him and let your mind race as you let yourself be surprised by the sound of your own voice, accompanied by London's nightlife sounds.

"Can I borrow your mobile for just a moment?"

He lends it to you, standing straight, his face and body illuminated by the overly bright street lamps which really should be dimmer in this part of town. You finish typing quickly.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" you ask, surprised by the expression not of annoyance but of unusually piqued interest in this stranger as he looks at you, probably measuring you up.

"Afghanistan. That is simply extraordinary."

"That's not what people usually say..." you smirk.

"What'd they usually say?"

"'Piss off,'" you say and the doctor, as you've deduced, smiles. "Name's Sherlock Holmes. A consulting detective like me could use an ex-army medic with a penchant for danger as help, and I'm in need of a flatmate anyway. Address is 221B Baker Street, Westminster. Up for it?"

The doctor smiled at you with a mixture of bewilderment and fascination, then said, "Name's John Watson; I'll be by to see the flat tomorrow at noon then."

You flash a smile or a grin or something that should resemble one and keep going your way, deciding that the doctor really could come of use and should make for a pleasant flatmate. As you replay the music from earlier tonight, remembering fondly the singer's deep voice, the music, and even the screaming crowd, you find that you cannot shake the feeling that something very good just happened.

Before you go to sleep, you compose that extra violin piece for that one song that stirred your fancy. Briefly, you hope that the doctor doesn't mind the violin, but shrug it off, supposing that he doesn't.

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**I hope you enjoyed reading this. Reviews are always appreciated. **


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